


Eucalyptus or Bust

by Byacolate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Public Display of Affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conditioned beards are the future, and the future smells like pine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eucalyptus or Bust

**Author's Note:**

> That little pavilion on the Dorado map with the sofas and mood lighting was made to be the setting of someone's pointless fluff. I happily volunteer.

“You really got me good there a couple times.”

 

Hanzo looks up in time to catch McCree rubbing at his chest before he drops his hand. A direct hit to the heart, not once but twice. He smirks.

 

“You expected less?” he asks, setting his phone aside. McCree groans and collapses in a graceless heap onto the sofa beside him.

 

“Might as well be cupid.” Hanzo snorts and McCree leans heavily against him. “You like that, don’t you?” He grins. “You romantic bastard.”

 

Hanzo can recall running through this open air pavilion not two hours ago. The simulated missions through Dorado are his favorite to date - a small personal pleasure he allows himself. Plenty of vantage points to take full tactical advantage of, for one thing. For another, warm ocean breezes on candlelit nights, stretched out over decadent sofas with -

 

Well. With the man running his fingers through Hanzo’s hair. He presses his nose to Hanzo’s crown, breathing deeply, his exhale a hum. Besotted barbarian.

 

“You brought that soap I like,” McCree observes, bundling Hanzo closer. He sticks his nose behind Hanzo’s ear to kiss the side of his neck.

 

“I brought the soap that I like,” Hanzo corrects. His fingers find themselves buried in that unkempt mess of a beard.

 

Besotted _by_ the barbarian.

 

“And here I was about to show off that scruff softener you like so much,” McCree says. He sighs like an old dog; Hanzo pets him like one, too.

 

True to his word, McCree’s beard is soft to the touch and smells faintly of pine. McCree kisses his palm - a romantic gesture, dampened somewhat by the way he flops down into Hanzo’s lap not a moment later.

 

“You are dead weight. I have told you this.”

 

“Take pity, sweetheart,” McCree groans. It is rather piteous. “You shot me twice tonight.”

 

Hanzo will allow it. “The same cannot be said for you.”

 

McCree closes his eyes when Hanzo cards his fingers through his hair -damp and fragrant from his shower. He had not stopped to properly dry it as Hanzo had. “What were you in such a rush for that you could not first dry your hair?”

 

“You fishin’ for compliments? You know exactly what gets my feet moving.” With great fondness, he reaches up to pat the bare half of Hanzo’s chest.

 

The sound of the sea is so distant, so subtle that in the heat of battle, with his blood rushing, feet restless, he does not hear it. Once the simulation ends and opponents are comrades once more, he can hear the far-off rush of the waves along the coast of Mexico. McCree pulls him down into a kiss with nothing between them but the sound of the sea.

 

“Mm,” McCree hums against his lips. Stunning eloquence. “You can shoot me through the heart any ol’ time you please.”

 

His beard is doomed forever to draw Hanzo’s hand like a moth to a flame.

 

“I have always known this.”

 

McCree kisses like breathing. He kisses like Hanzo has swayed him with sweet words and open affection. To Hanzo’s knowledge, he has never endeared himself thusly to anyone.

 

And yet.

 

“I’ve probably said this before, but you look damn fine lit up by candlelight.”

 

“Hmm.” Hanzo brushes the hair from McCree’s forehead. “You prefer to look at me in mostly darkness.”

 

“See, I knew you were fishin’,” McCree crows, patting Hanzo’s left breast. Then, he kisses Hanzo again. His tongue tastes of mint, scrubbed twice over with a brush as if to distract from the bitter taste of his cigars. Hanzo shows his appreciation with his hand cupped to McCree’s jaw, kissing him deeper.

 

There is something about Dorado that makes Hanzo sentimental, and he doesn’t know why. Perhaps the colors, or the heat, or the frequency at which McCree reverts to his mother’s tongue. Perhaps it is the sea.

 

“I could stay here forever.” As though he has read Hanzo’s mind. McCree sighs. “Right here. This couch, with you. Think we could retire early? Just you an’ me in Mexico.”

 

Hanzo… feels no desire to dismantle the fantasy. “Now?”

 

McCree pushes a hand under his shirt to scratch at his hairy belly. “Well, maybe not right this minute. Have to tell Winston, wouldn’t we? Suffer through all that disappointment. I’ll be honest - I’d rather make tonight just me and you. And these phantom chest pains.”

 

“Tomorrow then?”

 

Slowly, McCree’s eyes begin to open. He peeks up at Hanzo curiously.

 

“Careful, partner. Might start to think you’re interested.”

 

“There are worse places to retire,” Hanzo offers, taking McCree’s fallen hat and pressing it over his face. “Should we survive that long.”

 

“Mm, there’s my optimist.” McCree’s laughter is muffled only slightly.

 

It is not difficult to imagine a future with McCree.

 

Hanzo leans his head back against the sofa, pressing the hat down a little harder.

 

“It is not difficult to imagine a future with you.”

 

A silence, though not long kept.

 

“Yeah?”

 

McCree sounds hopeful. Hanzo starts to smile. Slowly, McCree’s metal fingers pull Hanzo’s hand from the hat, and the hat from his face, and McCree from his supine position. He grins like the silly fool he is and plants a sloppy kiss on Hanzo’s cheek. And then another on his nose. And a third on his mouth. The waves are crashing on the distant shore, but Hanzo can hardly hear them over his own thudding heart and the noises McCree makes when Hanzo sinks his teeth into that graceless bottom lip. For a moment he wonders what it might be like to always be this way. In his heart of hearts, Hanzo doesn't truly believe he deserves such decadence. This is but a handful of minutes - an hour set aside for this sweetness, this low-rolling heat. A bird is singing somewhere nearby, despite the hour. A part of Hanzo is singing, too.

 

“Well, honey,” McCree says, low and smooth like molasses as his affections descend along the slope of Hanzo’s neck. Hanzo rests his cheek against McCree's temple - a moment of weakness. One of many. He allows himself this much. “I do believe the future starts now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on the Hanzo-Is-Equally-Sweet-On-McCree bandwagon, but I feel like there's a middle ground between You're Gross Stop Touching Me Why Am I So Attracted To You on infinite loop and a very verbally, loudly affectionate and/or super syrupy Hanzo some people would like to portray. This has been my stab at it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Tumblr: [wardencommando](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).  
> Battle.net ID: byacolate#1589


End file.
